Chapter 14: The Blackout
The lights died at 7:03 PM on Saturday, October 15th, cutting off mid-sentence while I was taking an order.
One moment: normal coffeehouse, fluorescent lights humming, espresso machine grinding.
Next moment: complete darkness, sudden silence except for customer gasps and someone's yelp of surprise.
"Everyone stay calm," Terry's voice called out from somewhere near the office. "It's just a power outage. Happens sometimes."
My eyes adjusted slowly. Emergency exit signs provided weak green light. The large windows let in ambient street glow—Manhattan never went fully dark.
I could make out shapes: customers frozen mid-movement, Terry navigating toward the front, the gang clustered around their usual couch area.
"This is city-wide," someone near the window said. "Look—all the buildings are dark."
Everyone rushed to the windows. Sure enough, the Manhattan skyline had transformed from its usual glittering grid to scattered darkness punctuated by car headlights.
Terry reached the counter and found me by touch. "We need to close. Can't serve without power."
"Yeah." I started feeling around for the cash register key.
"Gunther?" Phoebe's voice came from the couch area. "Do you guys have candles?"
"Storage room. I'll check."
I navigated by memory—three steps to the counter edge, five steps to the hallway, turn left, six steps to storage. My hands found the shelf where Terry kept emergency supplies.
Candles. Box of them, plus matches.
I brought them back to the main room and started lighting them, placing them strategically—counter, tables, windowsills. The warm flickering light transformed Central Perk from modern coffeehouse to something older, intimate.
"We should close," Terry repeated, but he was looking at the gang and the handful of other customers who clearly didn't want to walk home through blackout chaos.
"Or," I said, "we let people wait it out here. Safer than the streets."
Monica jumped on the idea. "Yes! We'll just hang out until the power comes back. We can entertain ourselves."
"I have my guitar," Phoebe offered.
Terry hesitated, then shrugged. "Fine. But no refunds for drinks you already ordered."
"We'll pay for the ambiance," Chandler said. "Very romantic. Very medieval. I feel like I should be churning butter."
The handful of other customers left, preferring to risk the dark streets. That left just the gang and me in candlelit Central Perk.
Terry grabbed his coat. "I'm going home while I can still see. Gunther, lock up when they leave."
"Will do."
He disappeared into the October evening, leaving me alone with six people I'd been carefully observing for a month.
The gang settled into their usual formation—Monica and Rachel on the couch, Ross in the adjacent chair, Chandler and Joey on the arm rests, Phoebe cross-legged on the floor with her guitar.
I stayed behind the counter, wiping down surfaces I couldn't see, giving them space.
"This is actually kind of nice," Rachel said after a minute. "No TV, no phones, just us."
"And Gunther," Phoebe added.
Everyone turned to look at me.
"Gunther's fine over there," Chandler said. "He's probably used to working in silence."
"But he can't just stand there in the dark," Phoebe insisted. "That's creepy. Gunther, come sit with us."
I froze mid-wipe, rag in hand.
This was the moment. The invitation. First time they'd actively included me in their social circle.
"I'm good here," I said automatically.
"You're not good there. You're lonely there." Phoebe patted the floor next to her. "Come on. We don't bite. Well, Joey might bite, but only if you're a sandwich."
"Hey!" Joey protested.
Monica was looking at me with that assessing expression she got when organizing people. "She's right. You should sit. It's weird having you hover in the dark."
Not part of the circle. Phoebe had said next to her—adjacent to the group, not inside it. But still. Progress.
I set down the rag and walked over, settling on the floor near Phoebe's left side. Close enough to participate, far enough to retreat if necessary.
"There," Phoebe said, satisfied. "Now we're all cozy."
Chandler started a story about getting stuck in an elevator at work. Rachel countered with a disastrous waitressing incident from earlier in the week. Ross contributed paleontology trivia that no one had asked for but somehow fit the conversation.
I listened mostly, laughing at Chandler's jokes, wincing at Rachel's near-disaster with a tray of drinks.
Phoebe - 7:45 PM
Phoebe Buffay had been watching Gunther for weeks now, and the blackout gave her the perfect opportunity to study him up close.
He sat next to her in the candlelight, laughing at Chandler's elevator story, and there was something off about him. Not bad-off. Just... different-off.
Like he knew the punchlines before Chandler delivered them. Like he expected Ross to drone about dinosaurs. Like he'd watched this exact scene play out before and was enjoying the encore performance.
Interesting, Phoebe thought.
She didn't sense danger from him. Her instincts were good about these things—she'd grown up on the streets, learned to read people fast. Gunther wasn't a threat.
But he was definitely more than a barista who made excellent coffee.
"Gunther," she said during a lull in conversation, "have we met before? Like, before Central Perk?"
He looked at her, and for just a second, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or surprise that she'd asked.
"I don't think so," he said carefully. "Why?"
"You just seem familiar. Like I know you from somewhere."
"Maybe you've just been drinking a lot of my coffee."
Phoebe smiled. "Maybe."
But she didn't believe that. There was something else. She'd figure it out eventually.
The conversation continued. Joey started teaching everyone a theater warm-up game that involved making weird sounds. Monica critiqued their technique. Chandler made jokes about how this was the strangest party he'd ever attended.
And Gunther sat there, participating just enough, laughing genuinely, fitting in without forcing it.
He's good at this, Phoebe realized. Blending in. Being present without being noticed.
She'd keep an eye on him. In a friendly way. Because whatever secret Gunther was carrying, it wasn't malicious.
It was just... curious.
At 8:47 PM, Ross announced he was going to check if the power was back in the building across the street.
"Why?" Monica asked.
"Because I saw a cat earlier and I'm worried it's stuck outside without its owner."
"Ross, that's sweet, but also you can't just steal someone's cat."
"I'm not stealing it! I'm rescuing it!"
He left through the front door, determined to be a hero.
Twenty minutes later, he returned covered in scratches, bleeding from three different places, and holding no cat.
"It didn't want to be rescued," he explained, stumbling back to the candles.
The gang erupted—laughing, fussing, asking what happened. Monica was already trying to find napkins to stop the bleeding. Rachel looked horrified. Chandler made a joke about rabies.
I stood up and walked to the back room, retrieving the first-aid kit from storage. Brought it back and handed it to Monica without saying anything.
She looked up at me, paused mid-panic, and mouthed thank you.
I nodded and went back to my spot on the floor.
Monica cleaned Ross's scratches with antiseptic wipes while he complained about the sting. The gang continued their chaos—offering advice, making jokes, supporting through mockery.
I watched them take care of each other and felt something warm in my chest.
This was what I'd been missing in my old life. Not just friends, but family. People who showed up in the dark and made it bearable.
And they'd invited me to sit with them. Phoebe had insisted. Monica had agreed. Even Chandler hadn't objected.
I was becoming part of this. Slowly. On the edges. But part of it.
The power returned at 10:52 PM with a sudden flood of fluorescent light and the espresso machine's startup beep.
Everyone cheered, blinking against the brightness.
"Well," Chandler said, standing up and stretching, "that was either the best party ever or the worst. I can't decide."
"Best," Phoebe declared. "We bonded. Bonding in darkness is very powerful for the aura."
Monica was packing up the first-aid kit. "Thanks for this, Gunther. Ross would have bled all over my apartment if we'd gone home."
"No problem."
They gathered their things—coats, bags, Phoebe's guitar. Filed toward the door in their usual chaotic procession.
Joey paused at the threshold and turned back. "Thanks for letting us crash, man!"
I raised a hand in acknowledgment. "Anytime."
They left in a cluster of voices and laughter, disappearing into the Manhattan night that was rapidly returning to normal.
I locked the door behind them and stood in the empty coffeehouse, surrounded by blown-out candles and the smell of wax.
Phoebe had invited me to sit with them. Monica had thanked me twice. Joey had called back a goodbye like I was part of the group.
Small moments. But they accumulated.
I cleaned up the candles, wiped down the tables, and walked home thinking about progress.
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